Yon particles of fire that glitter on the snow.Yon glimmering sparks of gold, of crystal and of blue,Wherewith the sunlight dyes, in many an Orient hue,The Winter's tresses white, wind-fluttered to and fro,
Yon ermine, that the hills to Heaven's bounties owe,Yon smooth pellucid floor of very argent newAnd this clear air and pure, unto my sense and viewSo sweet are that mine eyes thereat for rapture glow.
This season pleaseth me; I love its wholesome cold;Its robes of candour pure and innocence enfoldAnd cover, in some sort, the crimes of this our earth.
Wherefore with favouring eyes Jove looketh on this land:His anger spareth it, nor ever thunder-birth,To desolate its days, departed from his hand.
